Judd Dodge stood on the platform counting the Phoenix’s fourteen cars and debated boarding, recalling the train’s heyday and his pride as its designer. His hesitation stemmed from a handwritten threat on the invitation—“I know what you did. If you don’t come, others will know, too.”—which compelled him to face the sender amid what he assumed would be crowds.

Guided by a porter past a gray-haired conductor, Judd traversed the train from the locomotive through baggage, coach, sleeper, lounge, and food-service cars toward first class. He noted surprisingly few riders in coach and sleeper and an empty lounge, while workers in galley and dining stood idle or set elegant tables. In first class, he reached his spacious room in car 13 and found a vellum card summoning him to an 8 p.m. cocktail reception in the first-class lounge; the train departed at seven.

Uneasy, Judd explored instead of waiting, observing a buzzing loose lightbulb, shabby interiors, and an absence of staff presence in first class. He checked the observation car, famed for its panoramic glass, but found it empty and felt increasingly unnerved as he reflected on his past with Union Atlantic Railroad, his bond with owner Arthur Matheson, and the success of building the Phoenix—followed by an unnamed moral compromise that led him to quit.

Driven by apprehension, Judd moved quickly forward through the first-class lounge, dining car, and galley, where silent equipment and echoing noises amplified his alarm. He continued through the club car and coach areas, seeing prepared amenities—stacked cups, newspapers, set tables—but no people.

Car by car, Judd confirmed that everyone he had seen earlier—conductors, porters, kitchen staff, bartender, cashier, and passengers—had disappeared. The cumulative effect turned his worry into fear, leaving him alone aboard the moving Philadelphia Phoenix.